The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth

'T was near that “witching time of night,”
When spectres walk, and poets write;
The play was out, the shops were closed,
And all the laboring world reposed;
The waning moon was yet asleep,
Or had not risen from the deep;
When, in my elbow-chair reclined,
Thy form, fair lady, crossed my mind,
And I resolved to frame a lay,
Addressed to you, on New-Year's day:
But strove in vain—for every Muse
Appeared determined to refuse
The smallest favor I could ask—
And I resigned the hopeless task;
Sank backward in my crazy chair,
The haggard picture of despair!

When, suddenly, my vision failed!
And such a sound my ears assailed,
As filled my trembling heart with dread,
And shook the rafters o'er my head!

('T is true, just then, I can't deny,
Four hackney-coaches thundered by;)
Grimalkin gave a dreadful scream!
(She might have had a frightful dream;)
And Pug emitted such a groan,
As if some cur had stole his bone!
I felt my creeping blood recoil!
The lamp burnt blue!—(it wanted oil;)
My bristling hair now stood erect!
(For lack of combing, I suspect;)
My eye-balls, in their sockets, glared!
A certain sign that I was scared!
I listened, still, in breathless dread,
To hear the slow and heavy tread
Of some ascending footstep near,
Which fell like lead upon my ear!
Nor listened long—my garret door,
Which has been safely latched before,
Without a touch, wide open flew!
And what a spectre met my view!

An old, decrepid sage appeared,
With hollow cheek, and snowy beard;
A wrinkled forehead, soaring high
Above a deeply-sunken eye;
With head quite bald, except before,
Where one long silver lock he wore;
One arm a ponderous scythe sustained,

One hand an hour-glass, almost drained,
In which the sand was wasting fast—
(The recent year was almost past;)
'T was father Time—I knew him well,
And hailed him welcome to my cell;
Intreating him awhile to stop,
To warm his hands, and take a drop.

“Time never stops!” he hoarsely cried,
“For no one tarries time nor tide!
Though all abuse me as I pass,
And strive to break my scythe and glass;
Though all misuse and treat me ill,
Yet I keep jogging forward still.
But having ever met from you
That courtesy, to old age due,
Which you are exercising NOW,
(I smiled, and made my prettiest bow,)
I felt inclined, in passing by,
To let you know the reason why
The Muses came not at your call—
They're going to the New-Year's ball!
And as, at such an hour, you know,
'T is requisite to have a beau;
Of course, it naturally will follow,
That their gallant is gay Apollo.
No wonder, then, that you, in vain,
Have summoned this Parnassian train;

For let the fair but scent a ball,
And all, but Death, may vainly call.

“But fare you well! I can not stay,
For ere these sands have run away,
The custom-house of Heaven will clear
An out-bound ship—the good Old-Year.
And there 's another one, I learn,
Belonging to the same concern,
Full freighted, just come in from sea,
Arrived below, consigned to me;
And ere the hour of twelve be tolled,
Her precious cargo must be sold;
Comprising minutes, hours, and days,
And other goods above all praise;
Put up in lots, as each prefers,
To suit all sorts of purchasers,
A day, a week, a month, or year,
And I must play the Auctioneer.
Come with me, and attend the sale,
'T will serve you for a New-Year's tale.

No sooner had the spectre spoke,
Than quick I seized my hat and cloak,
And sallied forth, with hope inspired.
The citizens had all retired,
One “guardian of the night” except,
Who on a stoop securely slept.

My sage companion tottered on,
Exclaiming—“Going!—going!—gone!
A Year, in months, or weeks, for sale!
Who bids for part, or all the bale!
What for an hour?—or twenty-four?
With privilege of taking more!
Who bids!—the sale 's without reserve,
And none must from the contract swerve.”

“Put up,” exclaimed a bright-winged elf,
“Each moonlight evening by itself;
The summer ones so much I prize,
I'll bid a thousand tender sighs.”
“Once! twice! a-going!—who bids more?”
Grief added to the sum a score,
With twenty thousand tears beside.
Philosophy stepped up with pride,
And offered for each cloudless night
Twelve problems, which he—meant to write!

Poor Poetry approached the scene,
With threadbare coat, and pensive mein,
A brimful heart, and empty purse,
And bid two thousand feet of—verse!
Old Time, who took the wink from me,
Knocked down the lot to Poetry,
Who would no article remove,
Till he had shared the whole with Love!

Another lot, of darker hue,
The salesman next held up to view,
Exclaiming, as he shook his glass—
“Here 's goods of quite a different class;
A lot of nights, in cloudy weather,
Who bids?—the whole must go together;
For fireworks and illuminations,
And various other ‘demonstrations,’
This kinds of goods is just the thing;
Who bids!—they'll go for what they'll bring.”

A host of fiends approached the spot,
Each eager to secure the lot:
Sly crafty Fraud, mean Breach-of-trust,
Intemperance, Murder, Theft, and Lust,
And every imp of Heaven accursed.
Such rapid bids from crime and vice,
Secured the goods a heavy price;
And ere the buyers left the spot,
They all agreed to share the lot.

The crowd increased; the sage, perplext,
Put up a lot of week-days next;
Industry bid, but Speculation
Outbid him without hesitation,
Until they run the lot so high,
That all the rest refused to buy;
The auctioneer to dwell was loth,
So knocked the package down to both.

The Sundays only now remained,
For which fair bids were soon obtained;
Pleasure and Indolence expected
To have the pleasant ones selected
For them alone—to take the best,
And leave Religion all the rest.
But Time to this would not agree,
So knocked them down to Piety;
Exclaiming, “Going!—going!!—gone!!!”
The clock struck twelve!—'twas New-Year's morn!
Aroused by poor grimalkin's scream,
I woke, and found 't was all a—dream!

But, lady, should my dream prove true,
And Time have sold such goods to you,
May every bale, and lot, and piece,
Your capital of bliss increase,
While you deposite the avails
In heaven, a bank that never fails.
And when the great account, at last,
Is posted, and correctly cast,
The balance-sheet will clearly prove
That you 've eternal funds above.
Till then, may pleasure crown you here,
For many a New and Happy Year.

University of Virginia Library

TIME'S AUCTION.

A NEW-YEAR'S POEM, ADDRESSED TO A LADY.